


In Vestments

by Paraphilia



Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love
Genre: Breakfast, Comedy, Humor, M/M, Underwear Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 02:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paraphilia/pseuds/Paraphilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We all know that James has a fetish for Dorian's underwear. Combine that with a fetish for money, and you can only get one result...</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Vestments

Breakfasts were tumultuous affairs at Castle Gloria. Arguments, counter-arguments and sobs of hunger echoed down the halls. One would imagine that breakfast at a castle would be luxurious and extravagant; one would _hope_  that an Earl's breakfast might feature crystal bowls filled with rare tropical fruit. But instead of bacon-heaped platters and gourmet croissants, Dorian suffered through a diet more austere than a monk's.  
  
Why? Because he had an accountant, that's why. An infuriating, decidedly unbalanced accountant, who seemed to think that starving his employer was the most efficient means of cutting expenses. Why, if James weren't so dear to him, Dorian would've cut James's  _salary_ , instead.  
  
James. It was all about James. Dorian was quite accustomed to having his cereal with clotted milk, or of having ten-day-old orange juice served to him in recycled plastic cups. It was shameful for an aristocrat of his standing to endure such indignities, but James refused to allow him anything that cost more than a penny.  
  
Which was why today's breakfast was such a surprise. For a moment, Dorian wondered if he were dreaming. This  _was_  his dining room, wasn't it? In his castle? Because if it was, then that  _couldn't_  be a plate full of freshly-toasted bread, with a glass of sweet-scented pomegranate juice next to it. And those couldn't be poached eggs, either. Or mince tarts. Or sugar cubes. Or...  
  
Oh, god.  
  
He'd finally gone mad.  
  
"James?" asked Dorian, tremulously. He gripped the back of his chair, refusing to sit down. "Is that a -- is that  _real bread_?"  
  
"What?" James shot him a distracted glance from behind a coffee-stained copy of  _Financial Times_. He must've stolen it from a garbage bin near the railway station, no doubt; that was where James got most of his periodicals from. "Of course it is. Isn't that obvious?"  
  
"But..." Dorian sat down, but this was more by accident than by design; his legs simply gave way. "I don't understand."  
  
"It's bread. You're hungry. Now eat."  
  
Dorian stared. At James, because -- well,  _was_  that James? -- and then at the toast. And then at James again. "James," he said, slowly. "Do refresh my memory. Did I imbibe any suspicious substances yesterday?"  
  
"Hmph." James shrugged his patched shoulders. " _I_  can't be expected to know what you did or did not  _imbibe_. You spent the evening with another man, didn't you?"  
  
Another man. Goodness! It had only been a two-hour dinner with the aging Count Beirbach; there certainly weren't any suspicious substances at  _that_ staid gathering. If Dorian hadn't been forced to attend out of common decency, he would've avoided it.  
  
But James did get jealous of the strangest things. Was this a form of cruel and unusual punishment, then? Offering Dorian a full breakfast, only to snatch it away from him at the very last moment?  
  
Dorian reached for the toast. Tentatively. He was prepared to pounce if need be -- James had, on occasion, displayed the uncannily swift reflexes of an alley cat. But Dorian's fingers drew closer and closer to the plate, and James didn't even twitch. His nose remained buried in the newspaper, and his eyes were fixed on what appeared to be a pie-graph.  
  
Well. All right, then. Dorian picked up a toast -- stealthily -- and bit into it.  
  
James turned a page.  
  
"Where's Bonham?" Dorian lightened his tone. Fine. If James was planning to _torture_  him, Dorian wasn't going to give in. Not that this counted as torture, precisely. God, the toast was delicious. Richly buttered, too... "He doesn't usually sleep in."  
  
"Bonham's busy," James said, evasively. "With work."  
  
Dorian's eyes narrowed. He took another bite from his toast -- a very large one -- and swallowed. "Really? And what might this work be? I don't recall assigning him anything."  
  
"He's doing market research," James responded. "For me."  
  
Alarm bells went off in Dorian's head. He should've known. The opulence of today's breakfast, coupled with Bonham's mysterious absence, could only mean one thing.  
  
James had a money-making scheme. One of his otherworldly, hare-brained, possibly fatal schemes. And Dorian would have to bear the brunt of it.  
  
"Market research? Sounds fascinating. If it's for a new business idea, James, you really ought to tell me. I might like to invest in it, after all."  
  
"You  _would_?" James's head snapped up from behind the newspaper, like a turtle's would out of its shell. His greedy eye gleamed. "I knew you would. Of  _course_  you would. The brand's named after you, after all."  
  
"Brand?" The toast wasn't so delicious, anymore. In fact, it tasted distinctly like ash... "What brand would that be?"  
  
"Gloria." James flipped the newspaper, so that Dorian was faced with a large, coffee-stained graph. The one James had been ogling before. "Look! Celebrity underwear sells in the millions. If we started a line of designer men's panties -- with you as our masthead -- we'd be rich!  _Filthy_  rich!"  
  
Oh, no. Dorian recognized the manic glitter of James's eyes. James had departed from this world in all but body; his spirit was now roaming strange lands of money-laden fantasy, where bank vaults opened at the merest flick of an eyebrow, and where James's touch transformed the very walls into gold.  
  
"That..." Dorian blinked, the toast dropping from his nerveless fingers. "That's marvelous."  
  
"Isn't it?" James waved the paper at Dorian's breakfast. "Eat! Eat! We can afford all the food you want, now. Just imagine it! GLORIA: GLORIOUSLY COMFORTABLE.TM Endorsed by Dorian Red, the Earl of Gloria. Lace trimmings! Silk! Beautifully sheer men's panties!"  
  
"Ha," said Dorian. "Ha. Ha. Yes." It was tempting to tip that pomegranate juice over James's head; it might wake James up. Then again, it  _had_  been months since Dorian had enjoyed a decent breakfast, and James's scheme would soon fizzle out... "What's Bonham doing, though? Market research? How would he -- "  
  
"It's simple." James grinned. "He's taken your favorite pieces of underwear to a discreet tailor. We're having patterns made."  
  
"Patterns?" Good god. "Out of  _my_  underwear?"  
  
"You're right to be worried. There are copyright concerns, but we've mixed-and-matched the designs a bit. No one would imagine that we've combined the best designer brands to come up with a new one."  
  
Certainly, no one would imagine  _that_. Unless they were deranged accountants with strange fetishes. "How can you trust the tailor? What if he talks?"  
  
"He won't," said James with confidence. "I bribed him."  
  
"You don't bribe  _anyone_."  
  
"Not with money. But he wanted some of your unwashed underwear, so I loaned him a few samples from my private collection. I hated to do it, of course," James continued seriously, "but it had to be done. For your good, my lord. Surely you understand."  
  
Surely. That. It.  
  
"You're looking as stunned as I'd hoped you would." James returned to reading his newspaper. He was flushed to the tips of his ears -- with _happiness_ , Dorian realized, the strangely terrifying happiness that only James could display. "That's good. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you, you know. I'll have your coffers bursting in no time. You'll be able to have croissants for breakfast. Or tropical fruit! Anything. Everything. And I?" He beamed. "I'll be selling your panties to the world."  
  
The blissful lilt of James's voice was disturbing in and of itself, but combined with panty-selling, it proved unbearable. Dorian staggered out of his chair. "I..." He wrapped his morning robe tighter around himself, shivering. "I have to sleep. More. Tired. Still."  
  
"Hm?" James was lost in his own world, again. "Not hungry?"  
  
"No," Dorian croaked. He was leaving breakfast behind. A beautiful, fully-furnished breakfast, the kind that inspired an almost sexual response from him in dreams. He'd been driven to  _dreaming_  of food. And yet, when faced with the real thing, he found himself unmanned. Perhaps this was a hallucination after all, and his dearest lemon-yellow panties were still back in his laundry basket, and not pressed against the mouth of a slobbering tailor.  
  
He shuddered.  
  
Hallucination. This was all a hallucination. He'd go back to sleep, and when he woke up, all would be right with the world...  
  
"I can have the juice sent up to you," James called after him.  
  
"Thank you, but no." Expiration dates. Plastic cups. Oh, how Dorian missed them!  
  
  
 **Fin.**


End file.
